


Stay

by HopeCoppice



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Exhaustion, M/M, Nobody says it but it's there, Other, Post-Apocalypse, Pre-Relationship, Pre-Scene: Body Swap (Good Omens)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-11
Updated: 2020-01-11
Packaged: 2021-02-27 09:15:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,464
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22204696
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HopeCoppice/pseuds/HopeCoppice
Summary: "Stay at my place, if you like."Aziraphale does, but what next?
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 24
Kudos: 170





	Stay

**Author's Note:**

> Apologies if quotes are a little off, I was mostly working from memory because I didn't have a copy to hand.
> 
> Another quick, angsty one to tide us all over while I'm wrestling with some longer fics. Enjoy!

“Stay at my place. If you like.”

It’s a lifeline, thrown to him with careful accuracy from the other side of a bus stop bench. It’s a lifeline, thrown to a drowning angel in a world that feels like it's flooding, all over again, despite the promise that had once hung in the sky. It feels like the end, even though they’ve saved the world. Prevented Armageddon, and lost themselves. Aziraphale has never needed a lifeline more, and so he tries to toss it back.

“I don’t think my side would like that much.”

He barely takes in Crowley’s words about _their side_ ; they both know Heaven is furious with him now and it no longer matters whether he spends the night with a demon or not. He doesn’t mean to protest, not really, but it’s the only way he knows how to respond to Crowley. When Crowley is achingly, devastatingly tender, Aziraphale has only ever had two options; he can thank him, and watch Crowley curl into a prickly defensive ball, and then put up with the demon being unbearable for the next hour or so, or he can reject that kindness, counter it with reasons they can’t be friends, reasons the demon can’t be kind and the angel can’t be touched. It’s a habit that just can’t be broken by something as trivial as renouncing their respective allegiances and standing side-by-side against the forces of Heaven and Hell.

He doesn’t know how to explain, so he takes Crowley’s hand as they sit down on the bus, and feels the demon go very still beside him. To an outsider, it would probably look as if Crowley hasn’t even noticed the action, but Aziraphale knows Crowley well. He’s tired - he’s worked infernal miracles beyond anything Aziraphale’s ever _seen_ , today - and he’s frightened, and he doesn’t trust anything good that happens to him right now. Aziraphale hopes holding his hand counts as something good.

He doesn’t let go, not as the bus pulls up outside a building in Mayfair, not as Crowley nudges him out of his seat and ushers him off of the vehicle.

“Stay with me,” the demon mumbles, as he leads him inside and up the stairs, “stay with me.”

“I’m here,” Aziraphale assures him, belatedly realising that he’s been in a sort of numb state of shock himself.

They go through the motions; Crowley offers tea, then realises he doesn’t own a kettle, just a fancy coffee machine, and he doesn’t have a saucepan to his name, and when he snaps his fingers to remedy the situation he winces, as if it hurts right to his core.

“Stop. No miracles, you need to- let me make the tea. Sit.” And Crowley sits, and Aziraphale snaps his fingers until he has what he needs, then carefully makes them each a cup of tea the human way. He has the vague feeling that perhaps they should go easy on the miracles, that perhaps that might make them harder for Heaven and Hell to find, but it’s not as if they can hide for long, and Hell already knows where Crowley lives; the puddle on the floor is proof of that. So he uses what miracles he needs, and he makes the tea properly, by hand, and then he carries it through to Crowley. They drink in silence, minds racing, hearts pounding. They have faced so much already today, and now all that awaits them is punishment.

“I have this,” Aziraphale tells his friend at last, and pushes the scrap of prophecy across the coffee table to him. The coffee table, like the sofa, hadn’t actually existed before Aziraphale came in with the tea; Crowley had been sitting hunched on the floor, leaving the single throne-like chair for Aziraphale. Aziraphale had considered the potential for fitting both of them on that, but decided a sofa would be more comfortable.

_When alle is fayed and all is done, ye must choofe your faces wisely, for soon enouff ye will be playing with fyre._

“What does it mean?” Crowley asks him, his voice as hollow as his eyes, and Aziraphale wishes he could lie to him. _It doesn’t matter_ , he’d say, _it’s nothing. Get some rest, and we can think about it in the morning._

“I think it means Hellfire,” he tells him instead, “they- Heaven- I think it’s for me.”

“No,” Crowley whispers, but Aziraphale knows he understands. He just doesn't want to. 

“And Hell won’t dispose of me for Heaven without wanting something in return,” he warns, as gently as he can.

“Holy Water. Then- then this is it.”

“No. No, look, it- this might not work. It might be completely mad, but… well, Agnes hasn’t been wrong yet. _Choose your faces wisely._ ”

“You think it’s a way out?”

“I think we need to exchange corporations. They could throw Holy Water at your corporation all day long and it won’t make a difference, if I’m inside it. And you’re immune to Hellfire-”

“We can’t be sure,” Crowley tells him gravely, “it’s never been tried before. Even if we _can_ swap bodies without destroying ourselves in the process- there’s no guarantee we won’t just die in each other’s places.”

“If-” Aziraphale swallows hard. “If we _are_ to die, I’d rather die with part of you to hold onto. I don’t want to be alone, I don’t- I want you there with me. Is that terribly selfish?”

“I don’t know,” Crowley admits, “but I want that too.”

It takes them an hour to gather their courage and try to exchange bodies; they _can_ , they discover, but wearing one another’s faces is a constant exertion of power as their souls try to revert to their usual corporations. It’s barely a minute before Crowley begins shaking, gasping for breath in Aziraphale’s body, and they have to swap back in a hurry.

“Drained,” he tells Aziraphale, “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry-”

“Don’t be. We have time.”

“Agnes said _soon enough_ -”

“Yes. Soon _enough_. We have to hope we have enough time. Now, you need to rest, or none of this is going to work.”

“Stay with me?” Aziraphale has already made up his mind on that front; he takes Crowley’s arm and supports him all the way into his bedroom, into his bed. He takes the demon’s sunglasses from his face and places them carefully on a nearby shelf. Then he settles beside him and reaches for his hand once more.

“If we survive,” Crowley mumbles, turning his head so he’s a breath away from Aziraphale’s ear, “if we survive, I’ll finally tell you.”

“Of course we’ll survive,” Aziraphale insists, “and then I’ll have to work out where I’m going to go.”

“Stay with me, if you like.” He’s trying for casual, for a hint of humour in the bleak darkness of their last night, repeating his offer from the bench.

“Thank you, Crowley, but I’ll still have to work something out the night after-”

“Stay then, too.” Crowley squeezes his hand, his uncovered eyes wide and earnest. “Stay as long as you want. _Stay._ ”

And Aziraphale knows it’s not a solution to all his problems. He knows they might not survive the next day, and it might all be moot. He knows Crowley might tire of the reality of a continual houseguest, or a roommate, or even whatever nebulous _us_ state they might be able to work out if they live long enough. But it fills him with warmth all the same.

_Stay as long as you want. Stay._

Crowley nuzzles his face against Aziraphale’s chest, as if subconsciously seeking warmth, and Aziraphale gazes fondly at the long, spindly limbs already beginning to wrap around him.

“If we survive,” he whispers into Crowley’s hair, “I’ll tell you, too.”

“Just stay,” Crowley murmurs back, “stay alive, and stay.”

Aziraphale’s heart feels like it might break, hearing that beloved voice torn between hope and hopelessness. He wants to tell Crowley now, before it’s too late, to tell him everything he feels for him, to hear the demon’s feelings in return. But they both know, already, and there isn’t time; Crowley will need his strength back before they make the exchange for real, and keeping him awake is not the way to help him. If he starts telling Crowley what he means to him, their former sides will bash down the door to find them still wrapped up in one another, still in their own bodies, still doomed. Aziraphale will not allow that to happen; there’s too much at stake. They’re too close to finally being together to let it slip from their grasp now.

So he wraps his arms around Crowley and pulls him a little tighter against his chest, and he nods, and he smiles.

“Yes, Crowley. I’ll stay.”


End file.
